


Thought Patterns

by pyrrhical (anoyo)



Series: Really Old Fic [28]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Gen, Heero POV, Now It Makes Me Want to Hit Things, Some Relena Bashing (I'm Sorry), This Fic Was Once My Baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-15
Updated: 2004-06-15
Packaged: 2018-10-10 14:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10439310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoyo/pseuds/pyrrhical
Summary: Ever wonder what it's like inside Heero's head? Well, here's the least likely scenario possible.Also possibly the most entertaining.And hell, maybe this really is what the inside of his head looks like. (It sure as pooh resembles mine.)





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written at some point in 2004, but this is the "edited" version, that I attempted to rewrite, which was done in 2006. It actually got a lot better. That is not to say this is good. But it could be worse.
> 
> I could maybe be convinced to continue or finish this stupid thing, if enough people actually enjoy the concept. I'd start it over (holy shit would I), but I do like the concept, and I roadmapped the whole thing.

If anyone ever invites you to come stay at the Motel 6 in their area, laugh in their face. Really. 

Lady Une, being far too busy to be spoken with about a bigger mission budget, gave us enough money to stay in a one-room, two-bed hotel suite -- yes, this is the suite -- for a week. Tops. After that, it's out of our own pockets. And I dunno who said the Preventers get mucho bucks, but they were off their rocker.

So, here we are, following an extremely obvious terrorist out in the boonies of the L4 area, bored off our asses and waiting for an opening. What's that you ask? How can an extremely obvious terrorist be hard to catch? Easy -- when they've got a ninety-pound nuclear missile in their basement, the right moment is hard to come by. Especially when he doesn't like to travel outside of a twenty-meter radius from said missile.

And to make things almost exponentially worse, my partner, one Duo Maxwell, has decided that he needs to play his entire playlist. As loud as it can go. Did I mention he's the industrial rock type? No? Well, he is. He's currently playing some sort of electronica with a crack-high artist singing something about deeper wounds and the end of you and me. 

Hey, look at that -- a cockroach.

Have I mentioned that I hate Motel 6?

Ah, he's turned down the music. This may have something to do with the beeping sound his laptop is emitting over the music. Yes, Duo, read the email. Turn off the music. Now. . .tell me what it says.

"Oi!" Duo yells, looking up at me.

Good boy.

"Apparently this case is being taken out of our hands. They finished the first level grunt training, so we're being pulled back to base for a bigger debriefing. And that's 'bout all. I don't think they could be any more uninformative if they tried."

I refrain from commenting on that one and merely stare at him. Since the music isn't going back up there has to be more to this. Or the email fixed the tone-deaf wires in his brain.

Now he's staring at me. Does he want a reply or something? "Hn," I offer, nodding uninterestedly. For some reason, this seems to irritate him. What else was there to say? Apparently something, but shoot me if I know what.

Now he's sighing. And turning the music back on. Dammit. 

Today just isn't going well.

/\/\/\/\

After taking a long, relaxing shuttle ride back to earth (insert sarcasm here), we arrive at Preventer HQ at exactly 14:57 hours, 13 September, AC197. Duo and I march towards Une's office purposefully -- there are underlevel agents wandering around, you know -- speak briefly with her secretary, and walk into the rectangular room that hives the MPD-positive colonel herself.

She looks up at us from her paperwork and smiles slightly before putting down her pen and sitting upright to look us in the eye.

"Nice to see you back, gentlemen," she says shortly. "Your mission has been taken over by a pair more suited for the job. The skills you two possess will be more advantageous put towards a heftier task."

Duo blinks. I think he may be attempting to ignore her newfound politician personality. I know for a fact that there's medication for ailments like hers; perhaps I should slip her an anonymous email.

"But, regardless, the team you will be working with won't be arriving until tomorrow." She sighs. "They had slight . . . transportation errors."

Duo obviously takes exception to her vagueness and poses the question on both our minds. "And now in English?"

Une smirks. I find myself briefly and inwardly disturbed. Those usually didn't pose good will on the horizon. 

"Their plane decided to malfunction, so they're taking a rental car from their current location, Winchester, here to Brussels. They rather enjoy long car trips, so I decided to humor them. Their last mission went rather poorly," she adds. 

I think Duo's eyebrow just twitched, but I can't really see it under his bangs, so I may be imagining it. I do, however, know his voice is rather "tell-or-get-strangled" upon his next question.

"And that means what exactly?" he manages to ask nicely, though his voice is grating..

"That was actually very well put, Maxwell," Une says sardonically. "But I'll go into further detail . . . just for you." She smiles brightly as Duo calmly moves his hand into a rather rude sign. "Agent Carmichael, one of the two you'll be working with, was given bad information that they'd leaked to us purposefully, went in, and got shot. Agent Jamison, his partner, took a rather large exception to this, set the place full of remote bombs, and was hurt in the resulting explosion. They were both in the hospital for a time, and are now heading back here," she informs us. "The case the four of you will be working on is one in a pattern that they've been following for quite a time. I would normally have allowed them to do it themselves, but they might not be completely up to par yet and I like my agents in one piece."

Duo smirks. I can almost hear the wheels squeaking. "So they're the brains, we're the brawn?" he asks, lips twitching.

"Generically speaking," Une replies, "yes. But I'm giving you a case file for everything they've done with this group to date, nonetheless. I suggest you skim through it tonight so you know what's happening when you move out tomorrow. I will give you a very short debriefing just before you move out, so you know your objectives and parameters, but otherwise you're on your own." She pulls a file from the corner of her tidy desk and hands it to me. "Now, go home and get some rest. Understood?"

Of course I understand. What a stupid question. "Hn." Stupid questions get monosyllabic answers.

"Yep, we're all peachy keen," Duo says, mouthy as ever. "We'll have this looked over by morning," he assures, winking at Une and turning to leave.

I follow wordlessly down the hall to the locker rooms. Duo, of course, chatters the whole way. 

"Huh . . . Carmichael and Jamison, huh? Well, the first is British, but the second sounds American. Have you heard of either of them before?" he asks me speedily. I have, at least in respect towards Jamison, and Carmichael sounds familiar, but Duo gives me a twenty second time slot to reply before continuing. "I hope at least one of them is friendly. You think Une was kind enough to stick a brief description of them in the file? Probably. She always thinks of those things . . . or, at least, one of her personalities does. I think it's the Colonel one. The Peace Activist and Politician are both rather self-involved."

He keeps talking for a while, about Une's personalities, but I tune him out once we reach the locker room. Opening my lock and pulling my neatly folded street clothes out, I strip out of the Preventer uniform and into a faded blue t-shirt, jeans, and a jean jacket. I’m done, with my uniform in the laundry bin, in seven minutes. Duo takes fifteen. I don't know what exactly Duo does that takes so long, but I’m decent and ready long before he is, though I choose to sit around and wait for him, anyway.

You know, seeing as we live together. He would be bitchy if I ditched him, and that's just a pain. He's all right to live with once one gets over how much he talks. And eats. And throws clothes all over. And uses hot water. And, well, any one of his horrendously ridiculous traits. 

All right, so they grow on you. So what? 

And what, in the name of all that's mighty, is he wearing? And why don't I remember him coming in to the office like this five days ago?!

Maybe some of his habits don't grow on you. They just pop up randomly. Like weeds.

But I've digressed. He's wearing some sort of skin-tight spandex shirt -- black, of course -- and baggy green cargo pants.

Oh.

From a third-person perspective, I'm sure this is hilarious. From my own, poor, abused little perspective, this is glare-worthy. And glared at he shall be. I'll use the level six.

I really need to get these patented. If I could teach people how to glare like me, I'm sure I'd make a pretty penny.

And now he's laughing his ass off. Maybe I should have pretended not to notice. No, with Duo, that just never works. Plus, I notice everything and everyone knows it. Crud. I'm stuck between a rock and Duo. Or, no, that really wouldn't be so bad. Maybe a rock and spandex? 

"Oh, this was so worth it for the look on your face, man!" he proclaims, slapping his side. Great, focus my eyes on your abs, asshole. 

And, thirty seconds later, I think he's asking me a question.

"Hn?" I ask. The "hn" is a very fine art that I have perfected over the years. If one does it just the right way, it can mean almost anything on the planet. I'm sure there's a dictionary on it somewhere. Check the internet . . . you can find anything on the internet.

"I said," he repeats, obviously getting a kick out of this, "are we going to go or are you just going to glare at my ribs?"

Damn, he noticed. I really need to learn to be less obvious about this. 

Oh, right, he wants an answer. I think I'll just shrug and nod, then start leaving. If I open my mouth, I'm afraid my drooling will become painfully obvious.

We walk out the main doors in a decidedly aggrieved silence. Or, well, aggrieved on my part. Duo obviously still finds this hilarious. I can just smell it. Anyway, we walk out the front doors, down the street three blocks, and come to our apartment complex.

The complex, Arrigan Heights, is home to quite a number of the Preventer agents. It's where I know Andrew Jamison from. I suppose I should mention that to Duo, but I think it'll be my revenge for his clothes. Bastard.

Andy's been living here almost as long as I have. Duo and I live on the fifth floor (of five) and Andy lives directly below us one level. I met him when my register broke and I tried to fix it. Easy enough to guess, I fell through and landed on his sofa. Nicely placed, that. Then we went out to coffee, attempted dating for about a week, and decided friends was a better way to be. We go to the pool hall or out to brunch every now and then to talk, but nothing more than that.

Now, for the record, I'm not precisely gay. However, seeing as Relena may have put me off women for life, I'm looking more in the area of attractive, young males between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three. I realize anyone eighteen or older being with me is illegal. But I won’t tell if you don’t.

Ah, home sweet home. 

We take the elevator up to the fifth floor, walk all the way to the end of the hall, and pry open the door. I say "pry" because it has a tendency to get stuck. Tendency meaning "in order to open it, you have to kick it a couple times". Not so bad, considering the neighborhood.

The apartment is a two bedroom plus kitchen, living room, bathroom, two closets, and a laundry room. When Duo moved in two months ago, the place was rather plain -- all earth tones, few to no wall decorations, and spotless. Now he's brought with him pictures, posters, paintings, and probably the plague. Alliteration. 

He's not the neatest of individuals, but for a seventeen-year-old kid he's not too bad. I'm a neat freak, though, so the apartment's usually pretty clean. He gets annoyed and loud -- plus more messy -- when the place gets too clean, so I let a few things collect on the tables and couches.

And he immediately goes for the stereo.

I think my second mistake -- the first being allowing him to move in -- was giving him full privilege to my vintage Pioneer sound system. It's a nice bloody system but he likes to rock the building out to his scary electronica and industrial tastes. I don't know where he gets half this stuff. He says the record store; I ask which planet. Well, silently.

So here's that crack-guy again and his electric, creepy sounds. Time to lock myself in my room.

Duo and I have separate bedrooms and I leave his the hell alone. All I know is that I'm glad he keeps his door shut.

My room is very . . . boring. I have a bed, dresser, chest of drawers, computer desk, wardrobe, bedside table, and other miscellaneous goodies. And contrary to what Duo tells people, my underwear drawer is not color-coded. It's sorted by type and texture. And if, by some luck, it goes from lightest to darkest, it was chance alone and I'm not to blame.

And now he's yelling for me.

"Heero!" Duo's voice comes over the music. An impressive task. I decide to be a good person and oblige with the first holler. After that, he tends to get curious.

"What?" I ask, coming out of my room and leaning against the wall. It's vibrating. Wonderful.

"We should go over the file!" he says, waving the manila folder around in the air.

Oh yes, the file. I'd forgotten about that thing. Oops. "Hn," I reply, walking over to the stereo and turning it down so we don't have to yell.

"All righty," Duo mutters, sitting down at the couch. I sit on the floor opposite the oak and glass coffee table from him. Tucking his hair behind his ears, he opens the file and starts pulling out the various paper-clipped sections. There are four sections, each with about twenty pages. It's becoming abundantly clear why Une told us to "skim" them. We'd be here for hours if we read through them all. Looking at them, two are on the case -- one with information about the suspects and their organization and the other about what Preventer has already done towards them -- and the other two are on Andy and his partner, Evan Carmichael. 

Evan. Why does that still sound familiar? Oh right -- he's Andy's boyfriend.

Wait. Oh. I really hope we're not all rooming in one big room. Knowing Preventer's funds, I'm almost willing to bet we are. This is peachy.

I think Duo noticed me groaning, because now he’s asking what’s wrong.

I point at the files for Andy and Evan. "Them," I say.

He really needs to get those twitches looked at. "What about ‘them’?" he asks me, upper cheek muscle twitching in random intervals.

"Andy lives below us, so I know him," I say. No need to delve further than that. "Evan is his boyfriend," I add. 

Duo blinks. "Right-o, then. This should be fun."

We look through the files for about another hour, then decide to watch a movie and eat dinner. At the same time. Duo has quite put me on to ordering Chinese and eating in the living room. This disturbs me, but I figure that if he's rubbed off on me, maybe I've rubbed off on him. Or, eventually, I can get him to shut up for more than thirty seconds. Maybe that's a bit much to hope for.

I think it's Duo's turn to pick out a movie, as he does so while we wait for the food to get delivered. I miss what he finally chooses when I go to the door to pay for the food. Apparently it's a DVD, as we get the DVD menu a few seconds later. Ah, _Bulletproof Monk_. Good movie. Funny. You can't really do those martial art moves, though. It's a bit misleading.

After the movie, we go to bed. All in all, a rather uneventful day. Really, I must admit Duo is getting quieter. I just don't know why. He used to try and start conversation all the time and I'd do my best to be responsive. I don't think I did a very good job, though, because he’s stopped trying. 

And when I finally convince myself this isn't a big deal, I'll get back to you. Right now, I think I'm going to get some sleep.

/\/\/\/\

My alarm goes off at five thirty, every morning, without fail. I get up, shower, and start breakfast for Duo and I. I learned long ago that he appreciates the morning meal greatly, but never really has time to make himself anything other than cereal on his somewhat ridiculous schedule. I consider this my apology for being socially retarded.

Duo's alarm goes off around six thirty and he drags his feet -- very caveman-esque -- into the shower. He's out half an hour later, hair neatly braided and wearing a towel. I focus my attention on the omelets I'm making. I think I'll grate cheese and add it.

He's dressed by seven ten and wanders into the kitchen to plop at the bar and watch me cook. Silently. Duo’s never really talkative in the mornings. 

I give him a mug of coffee -- lots of milk, no sugar; lord knows he doesn't need it -- and go back to my cooking. By the time we're done eating, the bounce is back in his step. His morning banter usually starts while we're putting on our shoes and jackets.

"So, Heero, what are we gonna do until the other two agents get back?" Duo asks me. He's lacing up one of his boots as he talks, his plain blue jeans cuffed mid-calf for better access. And what nice calves they are . . . 

Right! I should probably reply. It'll stop him from noticing my drooling, if nothing else. "Check the flight, car, and hotel arrangements," I supply distractedly. My voice doesn't sound any different at all . . . way to go, me! Wait, does this mean my voice is always distracted-sounding? Huh. 

"Good idea," he replies, uncuffing his pants and standing up. Duo stands a good five or six inches over my measly five-foot-five. Stupid genetics. "Did Une mention what time they'd be arriving?" he asks.

I go back over the conversation quickly. "No. But it’s not really all that far from Winchester to here," I say, looking at the map in my mind's eye. "Though there is the channel to cross. They'll probably be here around supper time, depending on when they left yesterday."

We arrive at HQ at 8:30 a.m. and head to our private office -- being former Gundam pilots has some bonuses, you know. I immediately pull up our flight schedule, rental cars, and hotel arrangements.

The flight leaves at three o'clock . . . in the morning. Where do they find pilots for this? Duo's going to rant when he hears that one. If he'll be able to hear it. I don't know when he got the chance to fill up his playlist on the PCs here at work, but he did. Maybe it's just a CD. Maybe it'll explode. . . . a man has to have dreams, you know.

Car rentals . . . well, they're all right, I suppose. Two cars. But only for the actual day of the assignment. They’re due back at midnight. How lame. 

Hotel arrangements? Motel 6. Maybe I should file a complaint.

And Duo's reading over my shoulder. How fun. Now he's ranting and raving about the flight arrangements. Predictable.

"What the flying crap are these people thinking?" he groans, flopping into the chair next to mine theatrically. I resist saying the very obvious, 'that Preventers have no lives?' "Who flies that early in the morning?"

I shrug and scroll down to the car and hotel arrangements. I think he takes as much exception to them as I do.

"That's it! I quit this stupid job! I want real housing, dammit!" he exclaims. I might be worried about this statement were it not for the fact he makes it every time he sees our accommodations. Now he's throwing up his arms and going back to his computer to . . . turn up the volume.

Great. Peachy. I need caffeine.

Offering no excuse, I wander down the hall towards the vending machines. It's a dollar fifty for a 20 oz. bottle, which is pretty good, so I snag a Cherry Coke. And then nearly get trampled.

"What the hell --" I start, stopping only when I realize who I ran into. "Andy!" I exclaim, blinking at him.

Andrew Jamison, a twenty-one-year-old strategist from the Eve Wars, blinks at me from behind flaming red bangs, green eyes twinkling. "Oh, hey!" he says, recognizing me. "Sorry 'bout that."

I shrug. "I thought you weren't getting in until later?"

"Oh, right. We caught a ride from the Preventer jet stationed right across the English Channel," he explains. "Une was a bit peeved that they have to change the flight plans and everything now, but Evan charmed her."

"The flight's been changed to one p.m. now. Anything besides that ungodly three a.m. one makes me happy," he says.

I nod, agreeing.

"So I hear we're working together, eh? Maybe I'll finally be able to catch your partner before he leaves or whatnot," Andy says, laughing. It's been a running joke between us that whenever he comes over to say 'hello' to Duo and I, Duo's presence is lacking. The two have never met, despite all the time Duo has lived in my apartment.

"Yeah, Duo's in our office right now, actually," I say. "I had to get away from his death-to-ears music. He listens to that . . . industrial electronica stuff."

Andy smirks. "Yeah? So does Evan. God forbid, right?"

I roll my eyes. "We're screwed."

"Maybe we can blast them with Led Zeppelin or something," Andy says. I realize we've been heading back towards my office throughout the entire conversation. You can hear Duo's music through the supposedly sound-proof doors.

I hope that's just the office being cheap.

I push open the door and Duo spins around on his chair to greet me. "Hey, Heero --" He stops abruptly when he sees Andy. "Yo," he continues. "You are?"

"Andrew Jamison," Andy says politely, nodding his head. "Most people call me 'Andy', though. Me and Evan will be working with you on the mission."

"Sweet. So you guys are back already?" Duo says, turning down his horrendous . . . noise.

"Yep. We hitched a ride. This also means that the flight arrangements got changed to one p.m. today. No three a.m. flight!" Andy says, grinning.

Duo grins back. "Kick," he says, standing up. "So let's go grab your partner and get debriefed."

"'Kay," Andy agrees, standing back for Duo to walk out of the office and shut the lights off.

I simply nod and follow the two of them to Une's office.

We arrive at Une's office a few minutes later and I see Evan. Thinking about it, I've met Evan before -- I really have. And he was as good-looking then as he is now. You can see why Andy's dating him and not me.

And now Evan and I are staring at each other. Oh, good; it's not one-sided. I think Une wants me to pay attention now.

"Well, it seems as if you're already acquainted," she starts, "but humor me a little and introduce yourselves, in case this is a fluke." She smiles sweetly at us and I envision her lying prostate on the ground. That makes me significantly more cheerful.

Duo struts forward and bows widely. "Since y'all seem to be having fun staring at each other, I'll go first. I'm Duo Maxwell," he says, smirking.

I decide to follow suit and my partner. "Heero Yuy," I say, nodding my head a little.

"Evan Carmichael," Evan says, chocolate eyes twinkling. The man really is gorgeous; wide brown eyes and an old-fashioned bull cut, leaving his black hair hanging in his face. He's muscular without being bulky and his tan is noteworthy. Andy, on the other hand, doesn't look like he could hurt a fly. He also looks blatantly Irish. Wavy red hair to his shoulders, usually tied back in a ponytail, and wide, expressive green eyes, he looks almost as innocent as Quatre. Almost. He's got about four inches on the Arabian and has slightly broader shoulders.

They're both taller than me. I foresee short jokes.

"Andrew Jamison," Andy says, quirking an invisible top-hat. "But you can call me Andy."

"Good," Une finishes for him. "Now, I suggest you go pack for your flights. I expect you back here at twelve thirty for boarding."

I blink at her. I think Duo does too, because now he's a bit riled up. "What was that? No debriefing? Just the name game?"

Une's lips twitch. "Yes, Maxwell -- just the name game. Carmichael and Jamison can tell you what’s going on."

Now I know Duo's twitching. He really doesn't like the idea of lower-level soldiers telling us what to do. I mean, I don't either, but this is one of his pet peeves. I'll have to remind him that Evan and Andy are both Level 5 as well.

Then again, I don't think the numbers mean a thing to him.

Duo’s just stiff that people other than the former Gundam pilots have invaded the top rank. Une promised there would only be 20 Preventer 5-ranked officers . . . but that doesn’t really make Duo feel much better.

And I really need to think less. The others seem to be deserting me. How rude.

They’re easy to track, however, considering the sound decibel at which Duo is grumbling. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I’m not quite sure I want to.


	2. Chapter Two

It's 12:57 when we run into the Preventer hanger, panting. 

Evan and Andy seem to have beaten us here -- for vividly obvious reasons -- and they're both laughing at us. Duo flips them the bird.

"Late much?" Evan asks, still smirking. "You completely missed the boarding call. We had to speculate on what was keeping you all by ourselves."

Andy joins in. "Yeah. We were just talking about a freak meteor shower when you ran through the doors."

Duo and I glance at one another.

Maybe I should mention that no one knows we're the former Gundam pilots. Imagine the havoc that choice piece of information would wreak. Half the people we work with fought against us during the war.

The other half probably know someone we killed.

Needless to say, there are a few words and phrases that we previous pilots (and all of those who know about us) watch out for.

Duo's the first to recover. "I think you might have noticed something like that going on." He grins. "Y'know; maybe a little."

Andy and Evan laugh.

"Anyway," Andy continues, "what were you guys doing all this time?" he asks, playful smirk on his face. Remind me to punch him later, okay?

“We were running on schedule,” I reply, rolling my eyes expressively as Duo sticks his tongue out at me. “Then, about halfway here, Duo realized he left his laptop at the apartment.” How he managed that, I’ll never know, but whatever. Just another of his bloody quirks.

“Good job!” Andy congratulates, slapping Duo on the back warmly, at which Duo sticks his tongue out again. I’m slightly disappointed -- he’s usually more creative than that.

We settle in on the plane and Andy and Evan waste no time filling us in on the mission. It's a bunker that failed its regulatory check, then started spouting anarchic jibber-jabber, then decided talk was cheap and decided to fight back. Unfortunately, they actually had a bit of intelligence and have kicked the minor division's asses. Some of the higher-ups in the organization are from a group that Andy and Evan have been tailing for a while, and they’re no laughing matter. So we're sent in with the sling. Yay, clean up crew?

Now, apparently, they have intelligence and ego, plus the weapons and technology our forsaken forces left behind, and are pissing off the uppers of the government. Not good people to piss off: I should know.

The flight should take another couple hours, so we're forced into something vaguely resembling celibacy from violence -- and entertainment -- as we sit back to wait. I wander into an empty cabin in order to procure silence, and am thus surprised and slightly disheartened when company arrives. Unexpectedly.

"So, Heero," a voice cajoles from somewhere near my left ear and I find an amused-looking Evan standing next to me.

So, Heero, what? "Yeah?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"How long before you tell him?" he asks, dropping his somewhat hulking form into the chair beside me -- where did that come from? -- and grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

Oh, duplicate meanings, how you forever plague the ignorant minded. "Tell who what?" I ask, hoping he'll clarify. A guy can dream, right?

"You tell me."

Oh, bite me, buddy. I'm not that stupid. I don't think. "I don't even know what you're talking about," I slide him.

Evan chuckles. Asshole. "Since you didn't jump on explaining to Maxwell why you’re so buddy-buddy with Andy --" Smart little fuck. "-- I'm gonna go with door number two, the one holding the pretty gold card." He grins at me. "When are you going to tell him you want his hot little ass, hm?"

All right. I wasn't expecting that. For good reason, too! I know I'm not an obvious person -- I have, in fact, been accused of being a brick wall, which I won't deny -- and I'm starting to think there might be a tag-team thing going down here. I can just smell it. I'm split between groaning and sighing. More humor will be derived from the groaning, and more sympathy from the sighing. Fuck. I sigh. "If Andy put you up to this, he was off base. I do not want to fuck my partner." And remember: Duo's the one who claims to never lie, boys and girls.

Evan rolls his eyes. "All Andy said, and said it a long time ago, was that you and he split up because you were both in love with separate people." He smirks. Damn, he reminds me of Zechs. Fuckhead. "And unless you're smitten with me, too, I'm thinkin' you're lyin'."

Damn Andy and his big mouth. "Evan --" Wait. What the fuck does Evan know? He's known me, what, off-and-on for a period that can't be construed as long-term in anyone's mind, and he thinks he understands me. Fuck him. "You don't know jack shit about me. I have a past. I have past acquaintances. Just because I've known Duo for a time before I knew either of you doesn't mean he's the one I'm in love with." I hate speeches. And, uh, speaking. In general. Fuck you, too.

Evan shrugs, damn him. "I just say it like I hear it. You never regret what you didn't say if you say everything on your mind, right?" He smacks me on the shoulder and I am once again reminded of his enormous mass -- what I wouldn't give to see his abs -- before he wanders out of the room. So much for a private room in which to think. At least the private part. 

I hate thinking. I really do. Sometimes I envy the people who don't do it naturally.

We land around the scheduled time and check into our mini-base: another Motel 6. Fucking world-wide corporations and their fucking cockroaches. Fucking Duo and his fucking perceptiveness.

"Uh, what crawled up your butt?" he says to me as we deposit our things in our room.

So "deposit" might not be the right word. So what? So I threw my duffel onto the bed with a little unnecessary force. Not unusual or anything. And the fact that the zipper popped off? It was an old bag. An old bag that I can't fucking get open. Fucking zipper.

So maybe I'm a bit irritated.

"Heero, you're mutilating a perfectly good bag." Duo is looking at me as though I've grown another head. Or turned purple. Or, God forbid, jumped up and down, clapping my hands and giggling. "What the fuck'd that zipper ever do to you?"

It chipped the paneling is what it did, but there's no way I'm going to say that. "Hn," I reply aloud, finally getting my fingernail in far enough to peel the bag open. Maybe I can fix it. If I can get the zipper out of where it's embedded itself in the wall. Whoops.

Duo rolls his eyes and pulls out his laptop, booting it up to check mission details. Unless something's changed, we're hitting the base tonight with a secret sabotage. See me dance with joy. At least I don't have to wear clothing that "blends in" with any strange surroundings. Damn nightclubs.

And I have no idea why I just thought of that. Hm. Oh, right. The music. The bloody fucking music that must have an auto-start because it's playing already. How does he do that? Redirect my brain from one irritation to another in less time than it takes a sleaze to earn his or herself a cheap drink, I mean. Now it's some hip-hop, let's dance around the room sort of thing, and I'm not quite sure what the point of its lyrics are, other than to break my brain.

_I'm gonna get free  
Ride it into the sun_

I don't even pretend to understand. No way.

"No change in the mission," Duo proclaims, loud enough to be heard over his thudding bass -- again, how does he do that? "We leave at 20:00, arrive at target 20:15, and need to be out by 21:45. Plenty of time for an in and out mission."

I nod, slumping dramatically onto my bed. I hope he wasn't watching. Damn Evan. Damn his intelligence, and damn this woman's boots for walking. I know there's something he wasn't telling me -- like, how I gave myself away -- but I have no idea what it is. And I'm supposed to be the genius. Yeah. Fuck genius. I'd give it all up for an ounce of either tact or common sense. 

I let my glance slip to the clock. 18:50. I suppose if I want to be ready for the mission, I should start emptying my mind sometime in the very present future. 

Right. Empty mind. Empty mind. Empty, uh, canister? Why on earth is Duo taking the bullets out of my gun? "Uh?" I ask, sitting up to stare in a way I hope is not quite as dumbfounded as I actually feel.

Duo glances my way quickly, then back to the gun. He doesn't reply. For once, he doesn't fucking reply.

"What are you doing?" I ask, watching him snap the empty clip back into the gun and aim the useless weapon at the wall. Fuck dumbfounded, I've reached out-and-out disoriented. Unexplained de-terrorizing and lack of verbalization from Duo can only mean one thing: I've entered the next dimension. And fuck if the next dimension isn't a Motel 6.

Instead of answering my question in words, which I would really prefer, Duo turns and points the gun at me, instead. What is this, a fucked up Western? You can't shoot me with -- Oh, right. There's a bullet knocked. But, uh, still confused.

As Duo just continues to aim the gun at me, staring in a rather unfocused way, I'm forced to rationalize. He's not going to shoot me. He's just going to break my brain. Great. Lovely. Peachy fucking keen. "You realize there's still a bullet knocked, right?" I ask. Vocalization is good, Duo. Learn from me.

Oh God, what did I just think?

"Yep," he says, finally, as he lowers the gun. He's still staring at me. "You always knock your gun when you're done shooting. I finally figured out why."

Since when has Duo spoken in riddles? Advance of the Martians: high alert! I've totally lost my marbles. "Because you never know if you'll have time to before you need to shoot," I say. That's the correct answer. It's what I was taught. It's why.

"No." Apparently not. "It's because you think you're gonna need that shell." His eyes turn up in a way I've come to learn means, _you think you're so smart, but I've already got you whipped_. 

Right now, I think I'm probably the most idiotic person alive. I have no idea what he meant by that statement. And I feel like I should. At least an inkling, anyway. "That's the general idea?" I guess.

Duo shakes his head. "It's not. We don't kill people." He smirks at me. "Duh? The whole point of Preventer?" He tosses the gun to me. At least my reflexes aren't as slow as my brain. "You've had that bullet knocked since last month."

And I have. Huh. Well, fuck me. The clock says 19:20. That was a thirty-minute conversation we just had. Sort of. I'm rather impressed.

I think we've subconsciously admitted to being through with that train of thought, as we both start getting ready for the mission almost immediately. I slip on a pair of just-tight-enough black pants and a skin-tight black long-sleeved tee while Duo does the same. I'm a little nervous to attach my gun, but I do, anyway, and we're out the door to the lobby by ten to departure.

Evan and Andy join us in the lobby momentarily, and we're all stuck standing around, looking like idiots. Though, unless Evan and Andy discussed my momentary lapse in intelligent thinking, I'm not sure why they're as quiet as Duo and I. Unless guns and cocking are common communication pieces among more than just us former Gundam pilots.

Five minutes of silence. I think this is going to be a long night.

*~*

In-and-out never sounded so easy. We did complete the mission, but only by the skins of our tails. Une conveniently forgot to tell us that the building was half a mile underground and the only channel in -- that we knew of -- had caved in. Lovely woman. I just adore her.

Adore mentally watching her writhe in agony.

And the fucking music. Can't we have silence? Or a beat that doesn't sound like its sole purpose is to knock down the walls? Our neighbors are going to come after us with sledgehammers pretty soon, and I'll be mighty hard-pressed to give a fuck.

He's not even using the computer. He's just got it sitting there, blaring, while he stares into space. Fuck. That.

"Duo," I say, breaking the vocal silence. I think I shocked him out of his reverie, as he sits up and blinks at me in apparent confusion.

Say something, friend. "Yeah?" he asks. Good job.

"The music," I say. Might as well torture him.

"What about it?" he asks, turning it down to hear me. Just think about what you're doing, maybe?

I sigh and pull a leg up underneath myself. "Don't you have any music that isn't just one bass blast after another?"

He's scowling at me. I'm finally honest, and he scowls. The jerk-off. "I like this music. I didn't know it bugged you." He flips through something on his screen. "I've got a bunch of shit, y'know?"

"Do you have anything we both like? 'Cuz if I've gotta listen to it all the damn time, it'd be nice if it was at least bearable." So I'm being an asshole. Whoops.

And he noticed. Double whoops? "Well, come take a look then," he says shortly, putting his laptop down in front of his legs and flopping backwards.

I'm really not good at this "communication" thing. Not at all. "Fine," I say, pushing my legs off the bed so I can stand and walk over to the screen.

And he wasn't kidding. He's gotta have at least twenty gigs of music on this thing. That's ridiculous. I don't think I even own this much music. Scroll, scroll, haven't heard of any of this shit, except for a few of the artists, which I mention to him as I scroll.

"I don't know any of these artists. Except for, uh, this one. And, uh, that one. And where do you find all this shit?" Ugh. Word vomit.

And, fuck. "All over the place. Used CD shops, mostly," he says, calmly. Only his calm speak is extremely disorienting, as he's sitting up again. Behind me. Apparently I'm unnaturally skinny, or something, as he starts fiddling with something around me, all the while breathing down my neck. Asshole. "Here," he continues, and pulls all the artists I mentioned into a folder. "A playlist we both like. Satisfied, grumpy?" he asks, turning and grinning right in my face.

And, believe you me, right now, I'm anything but satisfied. "Thanks," I manage to deadpan. The music starts to play, and I don't even know who's playing, because his arm has somehow wormed its way around my waist. And he's fiddling with my shirt. Bloody bugger, and, uh, stuff. Any lower and I could get him for harassment. And not with a deadly weapon. "Can I get up now?" Again with the word vomit. All right, word hiccough, but for me? It's vomit.

And he jumps. Didn't he notice he was inches away from groping me? "Oh. Sorry, man," he says, removing his arm to less obtrusive -- and more unknown -- space. Apparently he didn't notice. Odd.

I shrug and manage to get up and sprawl across my own bed. I think too much shit has happened today. I'm dead ass tired. Perhaps I'll just fall asleep to the somewhat bizarre image of Duo staring intently at the wall to my left, as though it could tell him the secrets to the universe. How fantastic.

*~*

"Heero! Maxwell! Up!" a voice yells, and I'm pulled, rather rudely, out of an interesting dream containing both mirrors and lots of catfish. There's a pounding on the door and a sudden thud from the other side of the room. I pry my eyes open to ascertain that, yes, Andy is pounding on our door, and, yes, Duo fell out of bed.

Congratulations, brain, you've passed "spotting the obvious 1-oh-1." A glance at the clock tells me it's six thirty a.m. 

And we need to be on the plane by seven. Hm.

Fuck.

"Shit!" Duo yells from across the room. Apparently he noticed, too.

I jump out of bed and grab my duffel -- luckily, I fell asleep in my clothes -- and manage to shove everything into it. Duo has a tougher time, as he's trying to get dressed and pack at the same time.

I grab the duffel from his hands and shove his clothes at him. "Here," I say, in a voice that sounds a bit like an order, "let me help," and shove him away so I can pack his things.

"Come on!" Andy yells, and the light squeaking noise tells me he's jumping up and down outside the door.

The other squad -- the one that got its ass kicked -- is on this plane, and if we don't catch it, we've gotta take the long way back. And no one wants that. Plus, a week with just Andy, Evan, and Duo? I'd go into emotional-in-depth-thought overload. 

We're packed, dressed, and out the door so fast I can imagine a little old lady asking us where the fire is.

"Forget to set your alarm, or what?" Evan asks as we try frantically to hail a cab. Yes, cab. Had I mentioned yet that Preventer was a cheap organization? No? Or that our rental cars were only for one day? Yeah, sometimes life just sucks.

Duo answers, panting, "Shut the fuck up." Maybe I won't tell him his shirt's buttoned wrong.

"I guess so," I say, more calmly than my partner.

Andy laughs, finally flailing us over a cab. "Maybe we should all share one big room next time, hm? All warm and cozy," he says, piling himself into the cab.

Evan snorts. "Warm, cozy, and violated," he corrects, snide grin on face. "Now let's shuffle, people, we've got fifteen minutes to get there."

Apparently the cabbie heard him, as a nice line of Arabic curses emanates from the front seat. I guess he's assuming we can't understand Arabic. Well, I can't speak for Andy or Evan, but Duo and I got a crash course from Quatre during the war, in a moment of utter lull. Or, you know, as "utter lull" as explosions every five minutes can get.

"Mantora Airport," I tell him, "as fast as you can." I blink. "Legally, if possible."

"Yes, sir," the cabbie says, pulling away from the curb and into the partially existent flow of traffic.

We're a bit too cramped to breathe comfortably, so talk keeps itself at a minimum, and we reach the airport with two minutes to spare. For a twenty-mile drive, that's pretty good. Actually, I'm not sure how the cabbie managed that, but I'll admit to having pointedly ignored the speedometer. 

"Flight?" the attendant asks us as we thunder to a stop outside customs. Why couldn't Preventer have a base here? Yick.

Andy pulls out the Preventer pass we were issued. "The Preventer ops flight back to Brussels, in the case that it hasn't left yet."

The attendant laughs. "No, sir, there was a boarding error, and the flight's been delayed an hour. You have plenty of time."

Fucking, midget-killing elephants. I'm feeling the somewhat uncharacteristic need to laugh hysterically. Ah, yes. Duo feels it, too. And he laughs for the both of us. Good chap.

We manage to laugh our way into the loading area, accumulating several strange looks and a few pairs of rolled eyes during our journey. 

"So," Andy manages, laughter coming to an end, "What sort of boarding error would set back a pseudo-military plane an hour?" he asks.

Evan shrugs. "I have no idea. We could always ask." He heads in the direction of a man in the Preventer Air attire.

The man turns around, looking somewhat perturbed, when he gets tapped on the shoulder. 

All right, he looks more than perturbed. He looks anxious. "What?" he asks, voice curt, if somewhat strained.

Evan gives him a carefree smile, which seems to calm him a bit. "We were just wondering what the reason for the hold up is." He laughs. "Not that we're upset -- we were running late as is."

He receives a tight-lipped smile for his efforts. What I wouldn't give to be able to calm people down like that. As is, I can send people into hyperventilation easier than talk to them. I've been told it's my posture. Right.

"An agent was caught with confidential information. Information he shouldn't have had on other agents." He grimaces. "He's being questioned by his superiors right now, but they don't seem to be getting anywhere. Last I heard, they were going to try a new tactic, then detain him until we get back to base."

Andy frowns, but Evan throws an arm around his shoulders, ceasing any vocalization he might have been meaning to do. "Information on other agents? How would he get something like that? I thought only the top ranked Fives could access agent information." He laughs. "And I've never even met one of those."

The man looks at Evan's jacket -- the 5 on the sleeve rather gives us away in Preventer company -- and his lips quirk again. "Orders from above. Those who have access aren't allowed to tell anyone they have access. But I'll give you a hint: it goes in pairs. Of the ten Level Five teams, three have unlimited access to Preventer files." He gives us an out-and-out grin.

Evan grins back. "And how would you know?" he asks playfully.

"When I'm not carting you ops agents around, I fly Lady Une's private jet." Apparently we're talking to the pilot. Good to know. Evan sure can pick 'em. "Always have. Even during the wars." He shrugs. "You learn things when you're always around the higher-ups."

I share a glance with Duo. It's a glance that means, _even if you're with the higher-ups, you only know what they want you to know. And if they don't like you, you don't know squat_. And while Une respects me -- we'll not say anything about my loud, disruptive partner -- she doesn't particularly  like me. Most of my information comes, grudgingly, from either Wu Fei or Sally. Because they do like me. Most of the time.

"Interrogation complete," the pilot's belt proclaims -- er, walkie-talkie, since belts don't talk, "begin general boarding immediately."

The pilot proceeds to blink at his belt for a bit, then grins at us. "Well, you heard 'im. The plane'll leave in five minutes. Have a nice flight," he tells us before wandering off in the general direction of the cockpit.

"All right!" Evan proclaims, walking away with Andy in tow. "Let's get a move on!"

Duo laughs and I shrug, following after him. Apparently we aren't going to discuss our interesting hacker. I'm sure Une will tell us at HQ. She always does.

You know, when she's in one of her good moods.


	3. Chapter Three

The moment we get back to Brussels, we're escorted by our own little Preventer entourage back to HQ, where we're promptly deposited in Une's office and told to wait until she has a spare moment, because she "would like a word" with us.

I'm not sure if I should roll my eyes or run away screaming.

Choosing the more characteristic of the two, I seat myself in one of Une's painfully erect lobby chairs and cross my legs, adopting a look of complete indifference. Duo, seeming to have less patience than usual today, which may be record-breaking, takes one look at me and flies off the handle.

I'm sorry for sitting?

"Aargh!" he screams, dragging his hands through his messed-up braid. Apparently he can't fix it without a shower. "Some numbnut biffs it and gets caught with confidential information on our flight, everything is obviously on high alert, or else we wouldn't have gotten a freaking escort, and Une doesn't have the time of fucking day to tell us what's up when she was the one who wanted us here in the first place!" he rants, all in one breath.

Andy gives him a sympathetic smile and a shrug, only incensing Duo's fury, and I'm made to wonder whether or not people can actually rupture veins in these moments of extreme high blood pressure.

"What the fuck is up?!" Duo crosses his arms violently, fidgeting, before finally reaching terminal velocity and screwing all protocol.

Let's just say Une isn't exactly pleased at us barging in on her office, but considering she's just hanging up the phone as Andy, Evan, and I chase Duo -- in an attempt to restrain him, I'm sure -- into her presence, I don't feel guilty about interrupting anything.

The look of extreme perturbation on Une's face really doesn't help my lack of guilt. At all. In fact, in an attempt to stave off laughter, I think I'll settle for grabbing Duo's shoulder and stopping him from spontaneously combusting.

"Une --" Duo starts before I get hold of him. Apparently my physical attempt to restrain him shocks him enough to shut his mouth, allowing Andy, ever the peacemaker, to get in the first words.

"Excuse us, Lady Une," Andy starts, buttering on the formalities, "but we've had a rather strained last twelve hours, and Maxwell's curiosity is legendary. We just want to know what's happened to put all of Preventer on high alert."

Une sighs rather dramatically. You can't guilt-trip me, lady.

"Jamison, Carmichael, I need you two to collect the Preventer 5 members from throughout the city, if you could, as today is a regional holiday and most of them have the day off." Apparently this amuses her, as she can't completely nix the twitch in her upper lip. "The quicker this is done, the quicker we can find out who is at the root of the problem. My secretary is working on an agent lockdown, so it's up to you two. Go now."

Andy and Evan exchange a look -- I bloody would, too -- but salute and leave the office as commanded. Une requesting their leave makes me wonder if this might be more serious than even the ubiquitous emergency personnel give light to. 

She eyes us for a moment and I have to tighten my grip on Duo's shoulder, as his shaking tendons imply he's going to try and speak again. I'm not sure why I can't allow him to speak: it's just a feeling I'm getting. A definite feeling.

Une sighs again as she lifts a manila folder off her desk, fingering it as though it might bite her. "As I don't think a thousand dollar bribe could pry Maxwell out of this room, I'm just going to say this." She looks at me, and I have a terrible, sinking feeling. "They somehow came across your records, Yuy." Duo's eyebrows furrow. I swallow. "The set you entered into the system as an annulment prompt."

My mind seems to have shut down, but my mouth is replying on autopilot. "How?"

"The only thing I can think of is that they had a keyword. Not even those officials with access to the restricted files, such as you two, know of their existence or how to locate them. Only myself and my few equals know we even have them, and still only Zechs and I know what they're for and in reference to. Whoever gave that agent those files knew they existed prior to their entering the data stream, and I'm tempted to say they used us and our possession of them as a gateway." She gives me a straight look, and I feel irrationally guilty. Like getting hacked is somehow my fault. "In Layman's terms, they would have already had to know what the files were about, and generally what they contained."

I'm shaking my head before she's even done speaking. "No. Not possible. All those who knew the contents of those files are dead. Have been dead for years in most cases."

"All but you and whoever told that boy to find them." Une's eyes are hard and sharp, and I can feel the sting.

I delay the subject, "Who was it that was found with them?"

She looks at a memo. "Carson Liming. A Preventer of rank two who received the codes in an email, which can only be traced to the name ‘Reinhardt.’ Refused to give us any further information and is thusly detained in cellblock E." Her eyes have lost none of their vehemence. "Yuy, you know the answer to this. I know you do."

I'm still shaking my head, and she's still disbelieving. Somewhere along the line, my hand dropped from Duo's shoulder to fist at my side. I know I must look shell-shocked, but I am, and hiding it would be nearly pointless. The only presence here to witness is Duo's, and he would have guessed something was up if my facial expression had changed not at all. Because he's Duo, and I'm me, and if it weren't for looks and IQ, we'd probably be interchangeable. Hell, nix the IQ: he's probably got me in spades. 

"What the flying pigeon fuck are you guys talking about?" Duo asks, breaking through my rampant thoughts. His voice is hard and reassuringly solid. He's not panicking, unlike me, and he's being rational. We've been talking circles around him for the last five minutes, and if he's going to know part, he's going to know all. I can't hide this sort of thing from him, anyway. It just doesn't work that way. "Documents Heero gave for annulment? What fucking annulment?" He pauses before his eyebrows rise infinitesimally. "Isn't annulment bargaining the process by which alternate military organizations prove they've disbanded and won't fight for any force opposing Preventer?"

Une nods. Fuck, I wish I were as frank as she is. "That's right. Of the five of you, only Yuy's backing organization was still running when Preventer was established, and though he's a fine member of our staff, we still needed proof of their allegiance, or we would have blown them to shit." Her lips quirk and I know why. "Or we would have tried to blow them to shit and destroyed half the planet in the attempt. Either way, it would have been counterproductive." 

"Or you may have simply been destroyed," I add to her thesis, impatient to move on. What all will she tell him? Enough? Too much? Am I honestly going to have an aneurysm?

"What organization? I thought the fucking Barton foundation was behind all our messes." Duo exhales, patience waning. "I know they were behind mine, and Wu Fei's, and Quatre's, and, well fuck, just look at Trowa's name." He runs a hand through his completely ruined hair, losing another piece of his cool.

Amazingly, I find myself responding before Une is given the chance to admit she has no fucking idea. Because she doesn't, despite what she may think. "The Barton Foundation supplied the monetary backing for the Operation Meteor project, but they did not supply the brain power. The brainpower was already there, in the form of the five scientists that were dispersed among us, the pilots. They had an organization amongst themselves, and that they belonged to, long before the Barton Foundation had even considered a rational method of taking over the world." I pause, and again wonder just how far I should go with this. The intrinsic beginning of understanding I see forming in Duo's eyes gives me the last little shove. He can know: it involves us all in a way that only I have ever known.

"This organization and all its leagues of benefactors and contributors was not originally interested in world domination, or even weapons at all. Their specialty was, instead, genetic engineering. They wanted to overcome genetic failures, and ultimately produce a race of humans able to make objective, educated decisions, negating the impact of stupidity on the world and its floundering resources.

"The first creation they discovered on accident was a self-supporting, artificially created landmass. They cultivated that knowledge into what is now the Colony and all subsequent Colonies. After selling that idea to the original founders of the space nation, they returned to their goal of the perfect human." Again, I must pause, and redefine what I'm saying. "Human isn't the correct term. They were trying to engineer a human replacement that functioned in all the ways humans do, but didn't have their drawbacks. Drawbacks being biases, preferences, desires, and such things that can provoke the human race into war or other self-destructive actions. 

"They accidentally created many things along the way, too numerous to recall here, but could be posed in an example of submachine cartridges, new knocking mechanisms in guns, and menial things like a different toaster oven and a new way to card wool. The next extreme accident they caused was the discovery and utilization of Gundanium Alloy. They created the specs for the first Gundam around the time the first ship landed on Mars, to give you a time frame. When they again wished to discard the project and return to their goal, they acknowledged reality and the fact that something that could be used as so powerful a weapon could not just be sold to the highest bidder.

"They picked the Barton Foundation because it was, amazingly, the least corrupt of the possible buyers, and would allow some of the creators themselves to continue with the project and have direct contact with the developmental team and future pilots. In their minds, the destruction of those humans living on earth was a terrible thing, but one that could easily be overcome. They returned to their tests, and with the self-regulating technology that was used to create the ZERO system, produced a series of test embryos, in the hopes that one would have some of the specifications they required. 

"These test embryos were created by patching together pieces of the genetic code from humans they had deemed worthy and worthwhile, though most came apart at the seems, and only seven resulted in human births. But therein lay the problem: they were still human. They still carried all the painful faults of humans, though to generally lesser degrees. Some were complete failures, but two were close to what they'd been trying for. By studying their mistakes and successes, they were eventually able to create a human with all of the characteristics they were looking for. The only thing left for them to do was the dehumanization.

"Unfortunately, the flaws within Operation Meteor stopped them from much productivity in their last days before destruction. Near the end of the Eve War, all but a few of the scientists had been killed, and those left alive had seen what their failed experiments had become -- and even worse, seen what their success had become -- and given up the mission. They, too, died in the accidental destruction of the satellite that was their facility. By January first, After Colony 196, only two of the Gundam scientists, four of the failed experiments, and the successful experiment were still alive.

"At today's date, both scientists have died of old age, three of the four failed experiments are leading normal, human lives and allowing Preventer to keep track of them, the fourth is myself," -- Yay! My voice didn't break! -- "and the success . . . " I really don't want to acknowledge anything Une has said. Past this point, I am no longer involved in the discussion at hand. I refuse.

Une finishes for me. Of course she does. "The success disappeared. He picked up root and vanished into the abyss of space, never to be heard from again." The fucking woman is smirking. She finds this amusing. "Gone to live a life in peace, perhaps?" She chuckles softly and I clench my fists more tightly. "Not likely. His intelligence is phenomenal, his physical prowess unmatched, his ability to reason objectively in any situation inhuman, and his remorse nonexistent. There is no possible way, outside of the denial in Yuy's mind, that he would allow himself to drift into non-action." She catches my eyes. "The others wouldn't try anything like this. Only him."

And I hate her right now. I hate her because she's right. I hate her because all of her assumptions are right. All of them except one: she thinks she understands. She can't understand. She knows him from data on a page, from written recounts of his actions, and from the horrified silences those who have met him fall into at the mention of his name, his being, or his mere existence. 

And I hate her because she thinks the mystery is solved.

But I can't hate her for more than an instant, as there's no time to do so. Duo's unknowing innocence in the room prevents it. His amazingly objective eye on the situation at hand draws me from the panic that is attached to him, my own personal postscript, and back to the present, more important danger. 

"You say 'he' and 'his' as though his name is some dirty word, to be shoved under a mattress at the nearest possible outlet mall. Does 'he' have a name, or should we start referring to him with a phrase of doom that lets everyone know exactly which 'him' we're talking about?" Duo asks sarcastically, seemingly unaffected by the information shoved on him in such a short space of time. As much as I'm sure he loves to infuriate me, I'm sure he'll puzzle over all this for hours, then finally ask me all the questions he's got piled up in his mind.

"Of course he has a name," Une says at length, though she hesitates on the name itself.

She has no real reason to fear his name. She doesn't understand why we avoid using it at all costs, but she thinks she does. She thinks we're afraid. Afraid saying his name will summon him to the room. Afraid it'll make him seem more real.

But he's already real. A mere thought is all it takes to send chills down our spines: we don't need a name to give us fear. No. His name gives us recollections of the past, not premonitions and fears for the future. We remember the days when we spoke his name casually and as though to a brother. 

We remember him before he went insane.

"Ethan," I say, and Une's eyes widen almost amusingly. She didn't expect me to say it. "His name is Ethan." Une is no longer important: she's shown her own weakness. I turn to look Duo in the eye, and don't see any near-condescending looks of understanding in his eyes. I see the quiet calm of a boy who likes to play his music too loud, but can become passive long enough to create a happy medium between our tastes. A lack of understanding giving way to the presence of knowledge itself. "He doesn't need an alias. His name is simply Ethan. No surname, since we all come from so many different sets of genes that a surname would be impossible to define." I allow a note of humor to enter both my eyes and my voice. "What name he's going under, however, is a different matter. He wasn't predictable in his aliases and ideas when he was sane."

Duo tightens his lips quickly before responding. "So what do we do?" he asks at length. "Do we try and find this guy, or do we wait for him to find us?" He frowns in thought. "On top of that, why the fuck would he want information that he's probably seen before? What would be the point of that?"

I lick my upper lip, contemplating. It's not something I do often, simply because it shows I'm not always in command of a situation. Rule one to being a stoic bastard: you must always appear in command of the situation. No ifs, ands, or buts. "The only actual copies of the information were on the organization's personal server, though you're right that he's probably already seen them. If he didn't get a copy for himself before the server was terminated, there wouldn't really be any other way for him to make sure that what he remembers is correct." I allow myself a small shrug. "The man's insane -- it's always possible that he wanted to get the files simply to see if he could. Genetically speaking, he has a photographic memory. He wasn't tested for any changes in ability after his sanity left him, however, and it's possible that he could have lost a lot of what he had. The only way to know would be to get a hand on him, and we're not gonna be able to do that unless he wants us to. Insane and defunct or not."

Duo seems to take all this in fairly well. "Just to get an idea of how screwed we really are if this Ethan guy is the one behind all this," he begins, making me wonder if he isn't going to ask what I think he's going to ask, "how much better is he than you?"

I resist the urge to giggle, mainly because I think Une might explode, and also choose to ignore my initial response of "You know the difference between a cockroach and a Howitzer?" and say, "Let's just leave it at the fact that he could take my ass off, wrap it flawlessly, and hand it back to me before I'd even realize we were, indeed, fighting."

Duo lets out a low whistle and says, with a humorous tone in his voice, "So let's hope he doesn't go on a murderous rampage, I guess. Or, y'know, decide he needs to run the world." A grin splits his face momentarily. "Though, honestly, I think Relena could talk a fucking Gundam to death, so placing extra guards on her would probably be a waste of time and manpower."

I'd be tempted to agree with him -- or at least smirk accordingly -- if Une weren't in the room. Damn Relena-lover.

Now, for the record, Relena's a lovely girl, and one of my good friends. I have nothing against her heart. But the girl can talk for hours once she gets started, and the whole stalking thing was a bit much. The look on her face when she realized she wasn't even the team I was batting against was pretty priceless, but the safe sex talk I got four seconds later was not worth the amusement. At all.

"While those are respectable goals," Une says in a monotone, "we should probably have a few more solid goals than that." She turns to me. Bitch. "What do you suggest, Yuy?"

I stare at her. If I knew how to deal with Ethan, I wouldn't be standing here, telling you about him. In fact, I'd probably be off somewhere, tanning, seeing as I no longer felt the world was in even REMOTE need of my assistance, as nothing could ever be a threat so much as Ethan. Ahem. "I'll see what I can do," I say. "But you should probably brief the Five members when they get here who you think it is, as well as his capabilities." I meet her eyes coldly. "Leaving out the connection to me, as the only ones with access are Fives, and any of them could be the traitor." 

Une purses her lips. I get the feeling she's not too happy with that idea. Then she realizes the first part of my statement. "Shouldn't you be the one telling them? You know more about him than I do."

I shake my head. "No. I'm going home," I say with a tone of voice that openly means 'don't argue with me,' in the hopes that, for once, it'll work on her, "and I'm going to make some phone calls, then I'm going to go to sleep, and deal with everything else in the morning." I turn away from Une, grabbing Duo's arm, but I know I have to reassure her in some way. "He won't attack during the night, if he's going to at all. His sense of honor may be warped, but it's still there." I don't know if I should say the next bit, but I will anyway. "I'm proof." Fuck responsibility, no more talking: I'm out of here. Une can deal with Andy, Evan, and the other the pissed off Fives on her own. They're not my problem.

Duo follows me without question, silent as we exit the building, humming only a soft melody. In fact, his silence is almost astonishing me. I'd probably be more shocked if I wasn't trying my damnedest not to hyperventilate.

We walk up the stairs and into our apartment, and I hang up my coat surely and calmly, making my way into the kitchen. With a swing of the topmost cabinet, I have myself a nice, full glass of brandy, and fuck if I'm not planning to drink the whole damn thing in a couple gulps.

When I've thoroughly burnt my throat on a swallow or two of the amber liquid, Duo chooses to comment. "What are you thinking?" he asks me, and I'm tempted to chuck my glass at his head. Instead, I slouch my way onto the living room sofa and throw my feet on the coffee table -- a very Duo thing to do, but not very me -- and attempt to sink through the cushions into the next dimension. And not a fucking Motel 6, this time.

After a pause -- long enough for Duo to sit down uncomfortably close to me -- Duo rephrases. "Tell me what you're thinking, Heero." In my slightly inebriated state -- my alcohol tolerance isn't great, but it's not bad, either, I don't think -- I imagine his voice sounds worried, but I can't quite bring myself to care. "This isn't like you," he continues, and yes, he's definitely worried. "In fact, you've done so many uncharacteristic things today, I might have to call the weatherman, just to make sure it isn't raining poodles."

I chuckle at that, though I'm not sure why. It's funny, somehow. "I really wouldn't be surprised," I say, amazingly coherent. "At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if polar bears in tutus came dancing by." I'm not really aware of what I'm saying until a few seconds after each word comes out, but alcohol has that effect on me. I'm a lot more talkative, and I have this nasty habit of saying aloud everything I'm thinking.

"Yes, you do," Duo replies. Whoops. "There was something you didn't tell Une." He pauses. "All right, many things you didn't tell Une, but that's understandable." He grabs my shoulder to force me to look at him, and I see that damnable worry in his eyes. Fuck. "But, y'know, Heero, maybe you should get it off your chest."

I sigh dramatically, pulling away to continue feeding myself to the sofa cushions "Fine," I say. I'm not sure why, or how for that matter, but I start talking. "I haven't seen Ethan in years, and the last time I say him wasn't so great. He shot Emiko, stabbed Jae, and nearly beat the shit out of Carr." I chuckle, this sad, pathetic, half-whimpering chuckle. "Then he started laughing. Laughing and screaming." I'm starting to lose my coherency. And I'm falling dreadfully out-of-character. Hopefully Duo'll blame it on the booze. Looking at my glass, I've only had about half. So maybe my alcohol tolerance lowers when I'm stressed.

Or maybe I just really wanted to say all this. No more introspection. Blaming the alcohol.

"But then I remember all the times before he lost it. All of us sitting and talking, hiding after hours so we wouldn't get yelled at for being off-task. Playing word games, stealing J's liquor, and just being kids. Kai and Anna would tell us stories from the med wing, and we'd get to know who'd come to the base that week, since they all invariably wound up in the infirmary, while Jae and Carr would talk about the Colonel's latest female conquests." I chuckle. "And even his rare male ones. Sometimes we'd talk strategy, and different ways to reprogram the computers to shoot toast at the annoying dinner ladies. Emiko and Karin would giggle and do whatever made-up dance they'd thought up during lessons that day. And at the end, usually around two or four a.m., Ethan and I would talk about the progress being made on Wing, and whatever new training thing we'd had to do that day, or what was coming up." The last time I tried to think about this, I almost wound up crying. I don't know if it's the alcohol or Duo's hand on my shoulder, but I feel remarkably calm.

"Then the eight of us went to bed, each with his or her bunkmate, and woke up four hours later for the day to begin anew. That was until 192, when Barton flipped out at the souls we all seemed to have." I broke off to close my eyes and chuckle, allowing the picture to settle in my mind. "He said that if his funding was going into this project, they'd have to develop new methods for training us. There was no way we could be effective weapons if we felt bad about killing." My mind's eye replays Barton yelling at us, holding Emiko by her hair. J tried to stop him, but only wound up with a fist in his cuff. "So they did. Anna and Kai were being thrown into more and more gruesome surgeries and Anna took to throwing up every day. Jae and Carr were taken all over the base to oversee the training of the Barton Foundation's recruits, and to learn to govern with an iron fist, while Emiko and Karin were taken to the board meetings to learn the ins and outs of playing the political game." Again I see the metal warehouse being used to build Wing. "And Ethan and I got more assignments, each more dangerous than the last. We were pulled into separate rooms for a couple hours a day and forced to watch recordings of battles past, to learn strategy and dehumanize ourselves to suffering."

Dehumanize ourselves to suffering. We just went mad. "That's when Ethan went mad." Me, too. "He was taken with Carson, and I went with J, and about half through an ancient recording of an earth war, the alarm went off. J stood up, taking me with him, and we walked in with time enough to see Ethan screaming, holding his hands over his ears." The picture of a blond boy kneeling on the ground, wailing, burns itself into my eyes. "Even five years later, I remember what he was yelling. 'We're human, we're not machines, we're not weapons, we're just fucking kids!' he yelled. 'We should be worrying about puberty and our grades, not the quickest and quietest way to kill a man twice our size!' He'd gone mad. Even his perfect genetic structure couldn’t keep his mind from vacating. But his skills, and his strength, were still on the ball."

I think I drifted off into silence, because Duo pulls me back to the present by shaking my shoulder lightly. "What happened?"

I laugh. I can't help it: it's humorous. "He turned on us. He yelled, 'You stand there, and you take it! You whine about it, and you know it's not right, but you just stand there and take their orders! You debate the strategies they teach you, and you act just like they want you to!' and then he laughed. An agonized, pained laugh. 'You have personalities, and you let these people tear them to shreds, and for what reason? Just because you do!' he yelled, and then his voice lowered, became almost deadly. 'Well, I don't have to watch it anymore,' he said. 'I can put a stop to this right now.' His body froze, and he looked down at the ground, then he looked straight up. Straight into my eyes." My glass is empty: when did that happen? Have I been drinking without noticing? "And then he said something that hit us, all of us, at the core of our beings. 'I'll put a stop to this experiment.' He pulled his gun from its holster at his waist. He pointed it at Emiko, and she just stood there, tears in her eyes. 'We shouldn't be here at all. And I'll make sure we aren't,' he said to her, and then he pulled the trigger. All the guards and our scientists jumped at him, but they didn't have a chance. J understood that. He yelled for us to retreat to lockdown, and Anna and Karin bolted.

"I suppose I should have, too, but I couldn't." I pause, setting down my glass and depressing myself even further into the sofa. "I only vaguely remember what happened between then and boarding the shuttle. Ethan broke free of the guards trying to disable him and pulled a butterfly knife on Jae when he tried to protect Carr. Jae went down and Carr tried valiantly to defend himself, but Kai had to duck in and pull him out, dragging him off after Anna and Karin." I pause again and squint my eyes, as though that'll help me remember.

"I remember just standing there," I continue, and Duo's nearly faded from view. "I heard J yelling for me, my name, but I couldn't move from where I stood. Ethan killed a guard and turned to grab me by the collar of my shirt. But he paused. I don't know how I must have looked, but he stopped, and looked me in the eye." I pause to laugh. "This boy, two years my junior, staring me straight in the eye, bloody knife in his hands, and what do I do? I brushed a streak of blood off his cheek. I don't even know whose it was: probably Jae's. But he paused long enough for J to grab my shirt and pull me from the room, locking the bulk doors and pulling me to the fourth floor.

"We loaded a shuttle almost immediately, and Carr was sent to the infirmary the moment we arrived on the satellite. He wasn't there long. As soon as he'd regained consciousness, he told Kai and I, the ones tending him, that he wanted to die. So I gave him my pocketknife, and he killed himself. Then it was just the four of us. The Barton Foundation only cared for our losses in the sense that they no longer had us to fight for them. So the four of us were thrown back into our training with a vengeance. Kai and Anna were still medics, Karin was still a politician, and I was still the weapon. But when we launched, J told me to change the plan. The scientists had plotted amongst themselves, revenge on the Foundation for never seeking out Ethan.

"They sent Karin, Kai, and Anna into hiding, and me to earth under a different name, so the Foundation couldn't track me. They wound up changing the trackers in Wing to that end." I smirk. "And we won. The Foundation is no more, and we're still here, kicking and screaming." I fall silent. I'm not sure what else to say. I'm also getting tired.

No, tired isn't the right word. The right word is "exhausted." I'm exhausted. 

"What happened to the other three? And the satellite?" Duo asks, prompting me to continue.

"The satellite self-destructed, or, as the official records say, was 'accidentally destroyed.' Karin hid in the L3 cluster, and is now a high school history teacher, of all things. Kai and Anna got married and moved into the same community when their daughter, Maureen, was born. That was three years ago." I go silent again.

Duo asks, with some confusion in his voice, "They're seventeen-year-old parents? And a teacher?"

I blink, then look up at him. "No. Why would you think that?" I must admit I'm confused. The alcohol doesn't help.

"Well, I assumed they were our age," Duo says, though he doesn't seem sure, anymore.

I shake my head. "All eight of us were 'finished,' so to speak, at different times. Emiko was first, in 171, then Carr and Karin in pretty quick succession in 173, followed by Kai in 174, Anna in 175, Jae in 177, me in 180, and Ethan in 182." I blink at him. "They didn't just make one batch, then quit."

Duo chuckles. "See, there's my problem. I assume things." He pauses again. "So the teacher is twenty-six, and the married couple are twenty-three and twenty-two?"

I nod. "Yeah. Anna's actually pregnant again, due sometime in December." I can't seem to make out long sentences anymore. I've said so much today, maybe I wore out my voice. "I think I talked too much today. I'm running out of words." I pause again. "And waxing poetic. I think it's time for bed." And I stand, which surprises Duo, as he looks up at me in some form of shock.

"Uhm, okay," he replies, and stands as well.

The last thought I have before falling into bed is that maybe, just maybe, it really did feel good to get all that off my chest. And I've really, really not been myself all day.

 

 **Thought Patterns**  
Chapter 04: Version Two

I’ve been awake for thirty seconds, and I’ve already decided it’s going to be a bad day. In my exhaustion, I forgot to turn my alarm off last night, and I really didn’t need to be woken up at five thirty today. But hey, it’s me, and heaven forbid if I’m allowed to fall back asleep after waking up. Nope, I’m wide-eyed, decidedly not bushy-tailed, and, uh, hungry as all hell.

Today registers itself as a strange day in the book of All Strange Days when, upon walking into the living room en route to the kitchen, I spot Duo already awake and staring, silently, into space. Can you say, “Twilight Zone?”

“Duo?” I ask, scrunching my eyebrows together in concern, as it’s not normal for Duo to be up before me, let alone at five thirty in the morning, and in the quiet? Did someone die?

Duo blinks, shaking himself slightly and turning back to me. “Huh? Oh, hey,” he pauses to look guilty for a moment before turning back to me. “Did I wake you up?”

“Uh, no,” I reply, “my alarm did.” He gives me an odd look. “I forgot to shut it off,” I clarify. I decline to mention it’s set to go off at five thirty every day, and that is has been doing such for the last four months, ever since he moved in.

Duo’s mouth presses into a thin-lipped smile. “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t me.”

He trails off into silence, eyes losing their focus on the wall as he takes a sip of the beverage I hadn’t noticed he had. “Duo?” I ask again, “why are you awake?”

“Oh!” he says, coming back to the present from wherever his mind had field-tripped. “Uhm, just a little thirsty,” he replies, holding up his drink in evidence, as though I hadn’t yet noticed it.

Too bad he’s the worst liar I’ve ever met in my life. Actually, I’ll take that back: when he puts in effort, he’s fucking flawless, despite his proclamation that he “never lies.” No one never lies; it’s just not plausible. But Duo usually doesn’t lie about anything important, not even in the form of sugarcoating. And right now, he’s telling the truth, just only a very small sliver of it. And, unfortunately for him, I’ve known him a little too long, and a little too well, to be caught up in whatever he says to try and fool me. Sorry, kiddo.

“Duo,” I try again, “why are you awake?”

He has the courtesy to look at least a little chagrinned as he looks up at me, wincing slightly, which is strange, since I’m standing in a not-even-remotely imposing manner, being as I’m shirtless and in flannel pants.

“Just thinking, I suppose,” he says after a short pause, his voice almost too soft to hear. “Woke up, wanted a drink, and couldn’t fall back asleep.” He chuckles. “Unfortunately, we didn’t quite have the drink I was looking for, so I settled for hot chocolate.” We’re not even a little bit out of alcohol, so my imagination is left with executive decision on just what, exactly, he’d been looking for.

If I weren’t concerned, I’d smile. Just like if I didn’t already know what he’d been thinking about, I’d ask. “Wait until we’ve covered all our bases before you worry about it,” I say quietly. He makes a small noise of protest, returning to looking at some nondescript point on the wall. “Right now, it’s not your battle to fight, all right?”

Apparently that wasn’t the right thing to say.

“What?” he asks me roughly, attention refocusing on me more quickly than I’d have given him credit for. “ ‘Not my battle,’ you say? Then who the fuck’s battle is it? Yours?” 

I’d be afraid if I had the energy, or the reason. But it’s Duo. I know him almost as well as I know myself. He’ll continue, and he’ll make sense, damn him. I remain silent, meeting Duo’s eyes with my own. 

“Well, let me tell you something, Mr. I-Fight-My-Own-Battles: you’re full of shit,” Duo says succinctly. His eyes are a confusing mix of anger and worry, and I’m tempted to sit down, just so I don’t fall over. “It’s everyone’s battle -- everyone who is affected by something is called to fight for their freedom. Or whatever cause the people are fighting for.” He scowls. “This stopped being between just you and him when he brought the Preventer Agency into it. Now it’s just as much my business as it is yours, as well as Une’s, and the rank two buffoon on the third floor who just passed his qualifying test. If there’s a breach in the security system, it’s everyone’s business.” He puts down his mug and stands up, walking up so he’s standing directly before me. “Do you understand?” he asks, reaching out to grab my arms.

I nod weakly, trying to step backwards, but Duo holds me where I am.

“Do you understand?” he repeats, this time with more emphasis.

“Yes,” I say, or try to say, as my voice comes out as something of a croak. I repeat, more solidly, “Yes.”

“Good,” Duo replies, and I’m met briefly with the anger in his eyes being replaced by relief before Duo does something I’m thoroughly not expecting.

He takes a short, deep sigh, and pulls me into a hug. 

I can feel his hands, one on the small of my back, the other curled around my shoulder, shaking slightly. His breath is shaking, too, into the side of my neck, and his whole body joins along, ceasing only as his arms around me tighten slowly.

This isn’t a situation I find myself in very frequently, and I suppose I should do, well, something back, and I lift my arms to do that something just as Duo exhales, “Fuck,” and lets go of me, spinning around to pick up his mug and head into the kitchen.

As I struggle with my emotional whiplash, Duo calls from the kitchen, “Maybe we should just go out for breakfast, huh?” I hear him rattling around with something on the counter, and I can assume he’s putting his mug into the strainer. “Then we can head over to HQ and wait for the others to show up.”

I nod, but realize he can’t see that, and reply audibly, “Yeah, sure.” When I unfreeze and start heading towards the kitchen myself, I recall my wardrobe. “I’m just gonna throw some clothes on,” I call, heading back into my room to do so.

Breakfast passes awkwardly and almost silently, and we arrive at HQ around seven, heading automatically towards Une’s office. When we get there, her assistant tells us that she’s in a meeting, and should be back shortly, and would we like her to page us when she arrives?

Rather than waiting around in the office, Duo and I take up on the assistant’s offer, and wander aimlessly through the building, eventually finding our way to the training facility reserved for those of us with more muscle mass than brain mass (otherwise known as the Level 5 Training Facility). We change silently into the light, airy pants and tanks that comprise the training gear, and head out onto the sparring mat.


End file.
